


I Will Follow

by fardareismai, WhoLockGal



Series: Where You Lead [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Brotherly Love, Brothers, Cancer, Comfort, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Healing, One Shot Collection, Platonic Love, sick day, talk of death, talk of illness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-27 11:05:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8399323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fardareismai/pseuds/fardareismai, https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhoLockGal/pseuds/WhoLockGal
Summary: A repository for missing scenes and short one-shots from the Where You Lead 'verse.





	1. Sick Day

**This scene was mentioned in chapter 10 of _I Always Wanted a Real Home with Flowers on the Windowsill._ It wasn't important enough to take time out of the narrative for a flashback, but it made me happy to write it, so here it is.**

* * *

Killian blinked through the heavy, disorienting fog that seemed to have taken up residence in his brain. His mobile was on the night table next to him, buzzing like a wasp, and he couldn't seem to draw his thoughts together sufficiently to comprehend why that should be. His body took over on instinct and reached from the hot, sweaty cocoon of his blankets to answer the infuriating device.

"'Lo?" he rasped into the phone, the single syllable setting off a barrage of coughing that felt as though it had set his throat on fire.

Once he'd managed to gasp his way to relative quiet, a voice finally sounded through his phone's speaker.

"You sound like Hell, Jones."

"I feel like it," he answered, in absolutely no mood to be witty. "What do you want, Swan?"

"The Jolly is closed and you're not exactly known for taking vacation. I wanted to check whether you're alive."

He remembered, vaguely, his alarm sounding that morning and having determined that he absolutely could not work that day- besides his own exhaustion, he could tell he was a hazard to public health. He'd considered getting up and putting a sign on the diner's entrance, but he found that he couldn't be arsed. His customers would, presumably, be clever enough to determine from the locked doors that the place was closed, and any idiot who couldn't work it out themselves could ask a friend.

"I'm alive. Leave me be now."

"Only by a technicality. Are you okay? Do you need anything? Soup? Tea?"

"Only if it's laced with cyanide. Leave me to die in peace, Swan. You'll have to get your coffee elsewhere- perhaps you could learn to make it yourself."

"Kil-" Emma started, but he slammed his phone shut on her voice, having no desire to deal with her meddlesome ways. He was an adult, and if the Jolly Roger had to be closed for a few days so he didn't become patient zero in an outbreak of whatever it was that he had, Emma Swan would just have to deal with it.

Tea did sound nice but he simply did not have the energy or strength of will to un-bury himself from the blankets on his bed and brew it, so he fell back asleep instead- his dreams unsettled and painful.

~?~?~?~?~

Once more, Killian swam up from the murky depths of unconsciousness. His head felt thick, his lungs congested, and his body ached.

He had no idea how long he'd been asleep, his normally dependable internal clock seemed to have abandoned him along with his health and good humour.

For all he wanted to burrow back down into his bed and go back to sleep, he knew he wouldn't be able to do it. For one, though he was sick, he'd slept at least ten hours already. For another, his mouth felt dry as a desert and he knew if he didn't get some fluids into his system, he'd never get well again.

There were some days still where falling asleep and remaining so until next he saw Liam and his mother appealed, but they got fewer and farther between the longer he went on. He hadn't had one in an age, and knew his current death wish was entirely to do with physical malaise and not emotional turmoil.

He shoved his blankets away, and the one effort seemed so immense and exhausting, he wondered at the wisdom of his intended endeavor- boiling water for tea seemed a herculean effort. He might manage a glass of tap water to keep fever-induced dehydration at bay before his reserves ran out.

As though his thoughts had conjured it, he could swear that he suddenly heard the whistling of his tea kettle, a whine that stopped after a few seconds.

He tried to drum up some concern for the fact that this would seem to indicate that there was another person in his flat but couldn't quite manage it. Energy was needed to worry, and he was also relatively certain that armed robbers rarely put on the kettle.

Slowly, from the feverish sludge of his brain, a voice emerged that sounded like one part Liam and one part Granny Lucas, telling him that whether the stranger in his flat was likely to shoot him dead or not, they were there and shouldn't be, and he should be dealing with it.

He shoved his protesting body into a seated position on the edge of his bed, then hauled himself to his feet by sheer force of will. Upon standing, his head spun, and he knew he'd never manage to get trousers on over the boxers he'd slept in, so instead he wrapped a blanket from the end of his bed around his shoulders for modesty's sake and shuffled out of his bedroom.

"Oh good, you're awake," the slightly-fuzzy (he should have put on his glasses, but it had been too much work- no chance at all of putting on his contacts today) figure in his kitchen said as he made his appearance in the main room of the flat. "I was about to go in and wake you up. Let me guess: you haven't eaten anything today?"

"How the hell did you get in?" he asked, blinking at her and wondering if he were hallucinating. "You haven't got a key, Swan."

"Picked the lock," she said, nonchalantly.

"Picked the- How the bloody Hell do you know how to do that?"

She smirked. "Some of us had wilder and more lawless youths than others. You pick up a few skills along the way. Sit down before you fall down."

He did feel like he might do just that and, in spite of the voice of his pride, did as as she instructed.

He hadn't given up on getting answers out of her, however.

"Why, exactly, did you pick my lock and what are you doing here?" he asked with what he thought was a remarkable amount of restraint.

"Taking care of you," she said in that infuriating way that women had, as though they were stating the perfectly obvious, but they knew that you wouldn't have seen it.

"I am a grown man who does not need a woman taking care of me," Killian said. Or he tried to, anyway. Had it all gone as intended, he'd have stood majestically while making this statement, crossed to the kitchen and taken the cup of tea to which she was currently adding honey away from her.

That was not how it happened, however. As soon as he got to the word "need" he collapsed into a coughing fit that lasted until there was a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of him, and Emma Swan sitting beside him, gently patting his back as though he were a child.

He wanted to object, but he collapsed against the back of the sofa instead, too tired and miserable to do anything.

She placed the tea into his hands wordlessly, and ran a cool, motherly hand over his face, assessing his temperature.

"My mother used to kiss my forehead to determine that," he muttered, surprising himself. He hadn't realized he remembered that at all.

He glanced up at her from under his lashes to find her smiling at him in much the way he'd seen her smile at Henry when he was being particularly sweet or childish. Then she leaned over and pressed a kiss into his cheek.

He suspected that he was too warm, which was why her kiss felt as cool and refreshing as a glass of water on a hot day.

"It's easier to judge the temperature when the cheek isn't hairy," Emma said, sounding amused as she brushed the back of her hand over his stubbly face. "You finish that tea while I warm up some soup and then you can have some Theraflu, which will help bring down that temperature."

She was up and back in the kitchen before he could object, and he found, somehow, that he no longer wanted to. While she puttered around his small kitchen, he sipped the tea she'd made (badly, but she was an American after all).

After a few minutes and nearly half the cup of tea, his brain began, finally, to kick in again.

"Aren't you supposed to be working, Swan? And where's Henry?"

"School," she said, sounding surprised that he would ask. "And Granny gave me the afternoon off when I told her you were sick. Mary Margaret made the soup, and they're both waiting for an update on how you're doing."

Killian frowned at that. "Why should they care?" he asked, feeling as though he had missed something.

"Because, and I don't know how many times I have to tell you this before it'll get through your thick head, Storybrooke is family, and family takes care of each other."

Killian had nothing to say to that and just sat quietly to drink his tea. Emma's timing was excellent and he had a hot bowl of Mary Margaret's chicken soup (someday he'd convince her to give up even one of her secrets) as soon as his teacup was empty. Then, nearly as soon as he had finished the soup, there was a hot mug of something that smelled vile and tasted worse.

"Theraflu. It's nasty, but you'll feel better. Promise," Emma said, even as she started brewing a pot of coffee for herself.

He might have poured it down the drain, but she sat in the chair across from him and glared until he finished all of it. To please her, he drained the mug as quickly as possible, then held it upside down to show that it was empty.

Emma, in full 'bullying-mother' mode, sent him to take a shower while she stripped his bed and re-made it with fresh sheets, insisting that he put on clean pajamas when he was done.

The hot water in the shower finished much of the work that the fluids, food, and medicine had started, and if he didn't feel quite himself when he stepped out, he didn't feel quite as much like a poorly-reanimated, week-dead corpse.

In clean flannel pants and an old t-shirt, he made his way back into the living room to find Emma curled up on the corner of his sofa, a book open in front of her.

"Whatcha reading?" he asked, dropping heavily onto the other side of the sofa.

She pointed to a bag sitting on his kitchen counter. "They're from the library. I dropped by and asked Belle what you like to read, and she gave me a few suggestions. You're always talking about how you don't have a TV or I'd have brought you movies. Maybe the Firefly series- you'd like that one." She looked at him carefully. "That medicine will knock you out. You should go back to bed, Kil."

He shook his head, though he was beginning to feel the soporific effects. He didn't feel like being alone so, without thinking too much about it, he fell heavily to his side onto the couch, squirming so his head came to rest on her thigh.

"Do you want something to read?" she asked, and he could hear the breath of amusement in her voice.

"No," he muttered, nuzzling against her with his nose. "My head hurts."

"You sound like Henry," she said indulgently. "The medicine has acetaminophen in it to help cut the fever, so I can't give you anything else for a bit, but maybe a glass of water would help?"

He shook his head, rasping his short beard against the fabric of her jeans.

He heard a small snort of laughter, and then he felt her hand thread through the fine hairs at his temple, rubbing gently, carding lightly through his hair, and generally soothing him.

He was nearly asleep when he heard her voice, still amused, still indulgent.

"You know, these curtains are really terrible. I should make you new ones."

He was asleep before he could form an answer.


	2. Under These Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Because I'm very good at taking a hiatus, I have for you a Captain Cobra missing scene from chapter 14 of I Always Wanted a Real Home with Flowers on the Windowsill that was requested by bethacaciakay.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **There's a chance there will be some kind of story posted by me every Friday this month, including perhaps another installment in the Labyrinth AU, and maybe another chapter of the Princess Bride AU (if I can get that one working correctly again), so when I say "hiatus" I apparently mean "not a hiatus."**
> 
>  
> 
> **I hope you're all having a lovely December!**

Killian slowed to a walk as soon as he could feel the darkness swallow him. He didn't need to run after the lad. Didn't even need to search for him. He knew exactly where Henry had gone, and had an idea that he might prefer a few minutes to himself.

The quiet, lonely night gave Killian a few minutes to gather his own thoughts as well. He was having trouble sussing out exactly what he was feeling- every possible emotion seemed to be rolling around in his gut, leaving him slightly nauseated and lightheaded.

Since the moment he'd seen Henry Swan clinging to the hand of another man, Killian had felt as though there were a pressure on his chest and a weight in his belly. When Emma had told him she and Cassidy had rekindled, it had grown tenfold until he'd felt he could scarcely take a breath.

When he was twenty-five, Killian had sworn there was no one in the world for him but Milah. Then, somehow, and without his realization or permission, Emma and Henry Swan had wormed their way into his life and into his heart. Henry was as much a son to him as Killian thought he was likely ever to have, and it had been jealousy, pure, simple, and green as poison that had stolen his breath when he'd heard the lad call another man "dad."

Then there was Emma. Emma was… complicated. He thought, no matter what their relationship that that would be the case. She wasn't Milah, and she wasn't his, but somehow every nerve in his body had gone cold when she'd said that Neal had stayed the night.

There was fury rolling around inside of him too. Most of it was aimed at Neal, but there was a bit there for Emma as well- that she would sleep with a man that wasn't hers.

He shook his head, forcing himself to be sensible. He wanted to be angry at her because it was easier to understand than all of the other feelings he was trying to deal with, but he'd seen her face when the woman had introduced herself. She'd been as shocked as anyone.

The rage was also on his own behalf though- that she would break faith with him. As much as he tried to push it down, still it re-emerged, bitter as poison. Killian knew it was madness, Emma Swan had broken no vows, and yet he couldn't seem to repress it.

Worst of all wasn't the rage or the envy, but the floating exaltation he'd felt in the wake of Cassidy's downfall. He'd been pleased to see Henry run from his father. Cassidy would always have a part of the lad that Killian could never touch, but Henry had never run from _him_. He could have laughed at the look of disgust that Emma had given the other man. She wasn't Killian's, but by all the gods, she wasn't Cassidy's anymore either. Whatever had been between them, Killian thought it might be well and truly shattered now.

The very awareness of the side of himself that gloried in another man's disgrace made Killian feel disgusted with himself. After Milah, he'd sworn that he would no longer be a man who took what and who he wanted, no matter to whom they were bound, and yet he found himself glorying in the same sense of accomplishment he had when Milah had come home with him that first time, rather than returning to her husband's bed.

He was a covetous sinner, and a bastard of the highest order.

There was no time for self-loathing, however. Henry's hideaway was only a few meters away, and he still had no idea what he was to say to the lad. If there were anyone less qualified to comfort a boy who had become suddenly disillusioned with his father, he could not imagine them. His own paternal disillusionment had begun, so he understood, less than a year after his birth.

If one had never had the illusion to begin with, could one become disillusioned?

The abandoned playground was all weathered wood and rusting metal, but it still stood solid. The centrepiece was a castle turret, jutting into the spring stars, and there, legs swinging over the side, was Henry.

Killian raised his hand in a wave and, with the brush of the stiff leather up his side, remembered suddenly that he was still wearing that ridiculous pirate costume of his. Memories of Emma in her own pirate costume, leaning against him as he sang love songs from Disney movies to her flashed before his eyes, but he banished them. Now was the time for Henry and no one else.

For all he was dressed in solid black, Henry must have seen him approaching because the lad showed no surprise as the ladder shrieked and groaned under Killian's weight as he climbed to the heights to join him. Once at the top of the tower, he turned and sat beside Henry, legs swinging out over the ground, as the boy's were. He said nothing, and the two shared a silence for several long minutes.

"I wish he'd never come back," Henry finally said into the dark. "Why couldn't he just stay away? We were better without him."

Killian shared the sentiment but knew it was his job to be the voice of reason.

"You're lucky in your dad, you know that?" he said, softly. "My dad left when I was a baby, like yours, but unlike yours, mine never came back."

"Never?" Henry asked, surprised.

"I never met the man, not that I'd remember. Do you remember my brother Liam?" He felt, rather than saw Henry's shrug. "He was the closest thing to a father I ever had. Nearly ten years older than me, he'd already been in the Navy for four years when our mum died."

"You don't have a mom either?" Henry asked, voice shocked.

"No. I haven't."

"Is that why you like my mom so much? Because you haven't got one?"

Killian snorted a laugh. "Your mum is nothing like my mum was. Everything was always shipshape with Sinann Jones. Your mum would have driven her half spare, late all the time."

"Oh," Henry said, voice flat.

"She died when I was fourteen," Killian continued. "I hated her for awhile for leaving me."

"But she didn't do it on purpose!" Henry said, sounding shocked.

"I know that now, but when I was that age, it was easier to be mad than sad, and so I hated her."

"Do you still?"

"No," Killian said, leaning back on his hands so he could look up at the sky. "Because she's my mum."

"But-" Henry started.

"Even gone," Killian interrupted, guessing what he was going to say, "she'll always be my mum. Now I just miss her, and wish I hadn't spent so much time hating her."

They were quiet together for another long, moment, and Killian sought constellations Liam had taught him as a boy in the night sky as he waited for Henry to speak again.

"Was Liam a good dad? Even though he wasn't really your dad… was he good?"

In his mind's eye, Liam stood tall, broad-shouldered, kind-faced, and honourable.

"He did what every father tries to do- keep his son from making mistakes. He tried to teach me everything I could possibly need to know."

"Did it work?" Henry asked.

Killian laughed again. "No. It never does. Some things can't be taught, and some mistakes you just have to make. He was the best father I could have had though."

Again, the pair descended into silence.

"Your mum is going to wonder where you are, Lad."

He'd been able to feel Henry relaxing the longer they sat, but this suddenly made him tense up like a rabbit again.

"I don't want to go home. I don't want to see her,"

"You don't have to. You can come back to mine and sleep there tonight, but I have to let your mum know where you are and that you're safe. She deserves that, doesn't she? She doesn't deserve to worry."

"Really?" Henry asked, and when Killian turned he could see the stars reflected in the wide roundness of his eyes. "I can stay with you?"

"Aye, I said so, didn't I?" Killian said, shoving himself to his feet and turning toward the ladder down to the ground. "Come on then, before it gets cold. I'll call your mum on the way."

Once on the ground, Killian wrapped an arm around Henry's shoulders and was surprised to find the lad leaned into him as he did, allowing him to hold the boy up. The weight on his lungs seemed to lessen and he took a deep, calming breath that tasted of growing things and starlight and exhaled everything else that churned inside his breast.

"Come on then, son," he murmured, guiding Henry back to town. "Let's get you inside."


	3. Fellow Passengers to the Grave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas story featuring the Brothers Jones and the Swan family in the Where You Lead 'verse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Title from the following quote in _A Christmas Carol_ :**
> 
> _**There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say,' returned the nephew. 'Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round—apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that—as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!** _
> 
> **Or: Wheel decides to write a Christmas Thing and, because she is a natural Humbug, writes this depressing and terrible thing instead.**
> 
> **Warning: This is the story of the Christmas that Liam and Killian share in Storybrooke after Killian has returned. For those of you who have read Flowers, you should be able to put it together that this is the last Christmas of Liam's life, and the brothers both know that. There is a lot of talk of death and illness. There is also a lot of talk of life and love.**
> 
> **Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, my lovelies.**
> 
> **Quotes toward the end in italics from _The Littlest Angel_ by Charles Tazewell, Copyright 1946, and the Book of Isaiah. I do not own either of those things.**

At six years old, Henry Swan was almost, but not quite, tall enough to climb onto the diner's stool by himself, and every morning involved an argument with his mother about whether he needed help or could be self-sufficient. The drama had been going on for weeks. Some days the pair of them would argue for several minutes until Henry capitulated and let Emma lift him onto the seat. Some days Emma would just let Henry struggle until he either succeeded (one in five times or so) or finally got frustrated enough to let her help. Some days Emma didn't bother with the argument and just lifted Henry into the seat, which meant her son was irascible through his meal, which always made Emma tense.

A week before Christmas, after this farce had been going on since before Thanksgiving, Liam Jones saw the pair coming into the diner, Emma's jaw already tensed for the fight, and a light of stubbornness in Henry's eyes, and decided to take matters into his own hands.

"If it isn't my favorite Swan and cygnet!" he called, coming out from behind the counter to greet the pair, and scooping Henry up in a great bear hug that somehow involved quite a bit of tickling and teasing and a swift move across the diner to deposit the lad in one of the high stools before his station. "I've been saving this spot just for you, so we can talk while I work and you have your breakfast," he said, conspiratorially, then looked up and gave Emma a broad wink even as he watched her shoulders relax under the red leather of her jacket.

"Thank you," she mouthed as she joined her son and sat.

Henry was still grinning as he turned to her and asked, "what's a cygnet?"

"It's the word for a baby swan," Emma explained. "Like duckling and duck?"

Henry frowned. "I'm not a baby!" he declared.

"Liam was trying to be funny," Emma soothed. "He was failing, but it was an attempt."

Far from being offended, Liam just grinned and shrugged. "If I stop telling terrible jokes, I'll have to stop telling any jokes at all."

"And then your dreams of being a stand-up comedian would die?" Emma suggested.

"Something like that, aye," Liam said. "Besides," he continued, watching as Killian emerged from the back kitchen carrying several plates to deposit them on their respective tables with scarcely a grunt of acknowledgement of the patrons of those tables, " _someone_ around here has to be charming."

"You don't pay me to be charming," Killian answered, joining the group at the counter. "And you don't make money by letting people sit at the counter and _chat._ Are you planning on ordering something or are you just enjoying the view?"

"Hi Killian," Emma said, giving him a teeth-baring look that might have been called a smile if her eyes had been a bit less cold. "Merry Christmas! Nice day, isn't it?"

"It's not bloody Christmas yet, and some of us have to work."

"Oh, you're perfect," she answered back with a slight sneer. "Now say 'bah humbug.' Henry can be Tiny Tim."

"Are you planning on ordering something, or did you just come here to waste my time?"

"I want a hot chocolate," Henry piped up cutting across the adult tension.

Killian turned his attention to the boy, but said nothing, only raised a single dark eyebrow expectantly.

Henry turned his confused eyes to his mother who mouthed the word ' _please_ ' at him.

"Oh!" Henry cried, turning back toward Killian. "Yes. Please may I please have a hot chocolate, please." Henry hesitated for a moment, thinking, then added in a rush, "with whipped cream and cinnamon. Please."

"You're learning sarcasm from your mother then," Killian muttered.

Henry again looked to his mother for explanation.

"Usually you only need to say 'please' once, but thank you for _trying so hard to be polite_." Though she continued looking at Henry, it was clear those last words were aimed at Killian. She looked up at him, eyes narrowed, and said with poisonous sweetness, "I'd like to order a cup of coffee, _please_."

"You know what coffee does to the body and mind, don't you?" he asked.

This appeared to be Emma's last straw. Her face flooded with riotous color and she opened her mouth, whether to shout or bite, Liam wasn't sure- Killian deserved either one- but he thought it wise to step in either way.

"Killian, mate," Liam said, clapping his brother on the shoulder rather harder than necessary if he were being strictly friendly, "why don't you go to the back and see if Bart set aside the plates of blueberry pancakes like I asked, there's a good lad."

Killian spun on his heel and marched into the kitchen without a backward glance or a word of leave-taking.

Emma watched him go with a narrowed eye. "And there was me thinking I'd made some progress, but he's back to hating my guts again. What'd I do to irk him this time?"

Liam shook his head with a sigh. "It's not you love. He's got a lot on his mind just now, and he's never liked Christmas much to begin with. Poor bloke needs a vacation, and I can't afford to give him one."

"You could use one too," Emma said, cocking her head to give him a considering look. "You're looking tired and you're losing weight. You're not allowed to work yourself to death, you know. This town needs you too much."

Liam gave her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Never you fear, Emma Swan," he said, his voice full of not-quite-believable jollity, "you'll always have good coffee, and your lad will never want for hot chocolate if I've anything to say on the matter."

Emma did not look convinced. "I'm serious, Liam. Promise me you're going to take some time off around the holidays, please?"

Liam placed one large hand over his heart. "Half day on Christmas Eve, and all of both Christmas and Boxing Day as well as New Year's Eve and Day."

"It's not much…" Emma said, skeptically.

"It's as much as I can afford. Don't worry about me, love. I'm right as rain."

"You need to hire more help," Emma insisted. "Then you can take Captain Blabbermouth and go someplace warm and sunny."

"And miss the stunning Maine winter?" Liam asked, ironically, gesturing out the big plate window at the front.

In defiance of tradition and in spite of the temperature dropping well below "intolerable" and the wind blowing steadily at "bone chilling," there was absolutely no snow on the ground. Everything was dismal grey and ugly.

"If you were going to skip a year, this would be the one I'd recommend," Emma said with an ironic smile.

Liam's eyes went distant for a moment as he looked out the window. "No," he said, softly, "I wouldn't skip a moment."

The two adults sat quiet together for a time as Henry slurped happily at his chocolate drink. Both were lost in thought.

"Spend Christmas with me and Henry," Emma said suddenly, breaking into Liam's daydreaming.

"What?"

"Bring Killian and spend Christmas with us," she repeated, sounding more matter-of-fact the second time. "Unless you had other plans… I didn't even ask."

"No plans, as such," Liam assured her. "I'd thought to attend midnight mass on Christmas Eve."

Emma was surprised. "I hadn't realized you were religious."

He shrugged. "I'm not, particularly, but our mum was. Good little Irish Catholic, she was, and we always went to Mass on Christmas, whether we could afford the time or not. Seems like the least I can do… you know, for her memory. If I were to have to face her again, I'd like her to know I'd done that much. We could still spend Christmas with you and the lad- you needn't come to church if you'd rather not. For that matter, I don't know that Killian would come either. Or… did you just mean Christmas Day and not Christmas Eve at all?"

"No, I meant both. It's always good to have company when you're waiting to help Santa Claus," she said with a smile and a glance toward her son. "And I'd love to go to Mass with you, so long as you thought God wouldn't strike me dead if Henry slept through it."

Liam smiled warmly. "The wee ones sleeping through the Mass is part of the tradition, actually. Kil did practically until we crossed the pond. When do you and the lad open presents?"

"Christmas Eve, I'm sure we'll finish that before Mass. Christmas Day is all for Santa Claus and playing with everything. Granny's giving me a frozen lasagna for the night, and Mary Margaret swears even I can't mess up her instructions for turkey the next day…"

Liam snorted. "She has more faith in you than evidence would bear out, doesn't she?"

Emma just shrugged, grinning.

"Let Killian and me be responsible for Christmas dinner then. It's the least we can do."

Emma looked confused. "You're coming to my place to help Santa and take us to church… I don't see what you could possibly have to pay back."

"Christmas isn't really Christmas without a child about, so the way I see it, you're the one making sure Killian and I have a proper Christmas, and feeding you both is, as I say, the least we can do. Besides, I have a feeling that a boy Henry's age isn't going to be willing to wait until a civilized hour to see what Santa brought him. If we're to join in on all of it, you'll have to put us up for the night."

"Really?" Henry asked, finally tuning back into the conversation. "You'd stay the night with us for Christmas?"

"Aye," Liam answered, grinning. "What do you think of that then?"

Henry's face went serious for a moment, his dark brows drawing together as he thought. "Is Killian going to be mean to us again?"

"No," Liam said, firmly. "I will personally guarantee that Killian is as jolly as one of Santa's elves, what do you say?"

Henry's face cleared and he grinned. "Yeah, that sounds awesome!"

Liam laughed, and it was as though the tension bled out of him in a moment. "Aye, that it does, my boy, that it does. Then it's settled. Christmas with the Swans and blueberry pancakes today. I must see where that boy has gotten off to with your breakfast. I'll be back in a mo'."

In the kitchen, the two plates of pancakes were steaming gently beside Black Bart's station, and Killian was nowhere to be found. Bart gestured with the top of his bald head toward the kitchen's exit to the back alley when questioned about Liam's brother, and nodded sharply when told to take the two meals to the pair at the counter- Bart didn't speak much, but he was the only man that Liam would trust with his grill.

Killian was out back, huddled in his inadequate black leather coat, smoking a cigarette in the biting wind.

"You'll give yourself cancer with those things," Liam said without heat.

"You would know," Killian bit out.

"Not really. I never took up the habit. Mine is one of those dreadful random ones that you can't predict or prevent."

Killian looked away. He would never meet Liam's eyes when he spoke of the disease that was eating him from the inside out.

"You'll still go first, old man. Leave me to my slow suicide."

He was trying to upset Liam. Scare him about his own mortality, but Liam was unafraid. He'd long since accepted what was coming and had made his peace with it. He'd made sure to do so before he called Killian home.

"You and I must have a talk, little brother," Liam said. The wind was biting, and his coat wasn't warm enough for this, but he had no desire to re-enter the heat of the kitchen. It was, perhaps, better to have this out in the cold.

It annoyed him slightly when Killian still refused to look at him, or even to offer his own usual line of "younger brother" in objection to Liam calling him little. It was a bit they had done since they were children, but Killian refused to joke with him any longer.

"I know I've asked a lot of you recently, Kil," Liam said, feeling the wind whip his words away even as he spoke them, "and most of it is unfair, even cruel. I know you're upset with me, and you've every right to be, but you will absolutely not be rude to my customers in my diner. Particularly when they're my friends."

" _Your_ diner," Killian spat. "What happened to 'it's the only thing I have to leave you, Killian, you can't just walk away from that'?"

"I'm not dead yet, my lad," Liam answered, evenly.

"Close enough," Killian muttered into the wind. "Have you looked in a mirror lately?"

"Every morning. It's how I know I'm still better looking than you are."

It wasn't true, of course. For all Killian's charming smile hadn't been seen in months, his was still the face of a handsome, healthy man. Liam did meet his own eyes in the mirror every morning and could see, just as Killian could, the reaper's skull behind his skin, which was growing papery and thin.

"This'll be your last Christmas," Killian said brutally.

"Aye, it will," Liam agreed, equally so. "We'll be spending it with Emma and Henry."

"We _what_?" Killian shouted, even this volume torn away by the wind. "I will do no such thing."

"We'll go over on Christmas Eve, once we've closed up here. She says they open presents on that night, so we'll participate in that-"

"You're telling me I have to buy gifts for them as well?" Killian interrupted.

Liam ignored this and continued, implacable. "After that, we'll go to the Midnight Mass-"

"Absolutely not," Killian insisted, shaking his head, and looking at Liam for the first time. "I haven't been inside a church since Mother died."

"You'll enter another when I die, so you may as well re-learn the habit," Liam said. "Anyway, after church we'll return to Emma's house to help her set up Henry's visit from Santa Claus. We will then stay the night-"

"Of course we will."

"-and the following morning we shall enjoy Henry's Santa gifts and then make the Swans a nice Christmas dinner."

Killian just shook his head. "Your last Christmas on Earth, and _this_ is how you think to spend it?"

"It is, yeah. With a child who is young enough to believe in Santa still, and that I'm a superhero. With a beautiful woman who is also one of my best friends. And with the only family I've got left. Family, friends, and kids… I think that's about what makes a perfect Christmas, isn't it?"

"They don't know you're dying."

"No," Liam said simply.

Killian took another drag on his cigarette, looking Liam in the eyes as he did as though daring him to object again.

"One of your best friends, you say, and you haven't told her. And that lad of hers… you've been there for him since the beginning. You think of him as a bit yours, don't you?"

Liam glanced away for a moment, then met his brother's eyes again. "Aye, I do."

"But you're not going to tell them. You're just going to up and die one day, leaving them behind."

"I'm not leaving-"

"You are. That girl's been left before, and you'll do it to her again. She'll hate you once you're gone- resent that you didn't let her say goodbye."

"I'll be dead, and what she feels about me can't hurt me. I don't want them mourning me while I'm alive."

"You're a right bastard, you know that Liam? They say that funerals aren't about the body, they're about the mourners, and I reckon this is the same here. These people love you and they deserve to know. They deserve to say what they need to say."

"You've known for months, and all that's happened is that you've gotten more and more angry with me as it got closer. And now you won't even spend Christmas with me because you think I'm a liar."

Killian glared down at the glowing end of his cigarette. "You're going to blackmail me into this, aren't you?"

"No," Liam said, evenly. "You don't have to do anything you don't want. You're a grown man."

Killian shook his head, dropped his cigarette on the ground, and crushed it beneath his boot. "What the hell do I buy for a woman I barely know and her son for Christmas?"

Liam shrugged. "How did you choose what to buy for your Milah all these years?"

"I didn't. Milah didn't- _doesn't_ like presents. Her… her husband would always get them for her when she wanted to leave or have adventures, and she always said that gifts felt like appeasement." He didn't look at Liam as he spoke. He always seemed to avoid his brother's eyes when talking about his adulterous affair of the past few years, as though afraid of being forced to acknowledge the disappointment there. He continued quickly, "she thought Christmas was too commercial and American."

"I don't suppose you informed her that the Christian celebration has existed in Europe since long before these colonies departed, and the more common pagan-based celebrations go all the way back to the Romans, did you?" Liam asked with a hint of irony in his voice.

Killian finally turned his eyes to his brother, glaring. "I've often wondered how you've managed to spend most of your life single, but if dismissing her personal beliefs while insulting her intellect is your usual _modus operandi_ , I begin to see the ladies' point."

"Says the man who apparently never bought his lover a gift in almost four years."

"She didn't want things, we moved around too much-"

"Staying ahead of her husband?" Liam asked.

"With the _band_ , you judgmental knob. On special occasions I'd get her concert tickets, or reservations to a famous restaurant. She wanted experiences."

Liam shrugged. "I don't see how Emma would be any different. She likes restaurants and concerts as much as any woman."

"She's got a child. You can't go to a rock concert with a six-year-old in tow."

"That's true enough," Liam sighed. "Clearly it's an untenable situation. Do you know what someone should do? They should come up with a system by which one's friends or family, or even just a neighbor could come watch a person's child, either as an altruistic favor or for money so that parents can continue to live well-rounded lives. A pity that's never been invented and parents are thereby forced never to leave the house between the times their children are born and when they turn 18."

"I'm pretty sure it's bad form to give a woman a gift that's going to require her to pay for a babysitter to use it," Killian said churlishly.

"You could always include an offer to babysit yourself as part of the gift," Liam said, a smile growing across his face as the color drained from Killian's at the thought. "I obviously can't, I'm liable to drop dead any moment. But I'm sure you'll think of something, clever lad like you. Mary Margaret is Emma's best friend, and you two used to be friendly. You could always try opening that charming mouth of yours and asking."

Killian continued to stare into the middle-distance as though frozen in place. Given the temperature, Liam wouldn't have been surprised if he were.

"Come on then, brother, back inside with you. You've work to do," he said, taking Killian's arm and tugging him, none-too-gently, back into the kitchen.

~?~?~?~?~

Killian winced as he stood on the porch of the Swan house, able to hear the childishly off-key rendition of "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" through the closed door quite clearly. He glanced over the top of the presents Liam had stacked into his arms at his brother who was grinning, even as he pounded on the door loud enough to be heard over the revelry.

The singing got louder until the door opened to reveal Henry Swan wearing a red sweater, a milk moustache, and what appeared to be cookie dough in his hair.

"Hi!" Henry called, grinning at the pair of them. "Mom's mad 'cause she was hoping we'd have cookies before you got here, but she keeps burning them. She said a bad word when you knocked!"

The warm air coming from the house did have a distinct odor of burned sugar cookies, Killian noted.

" _I_ didn't burn them!" Emma's voice came from somewhere to the right of the front door, presumably the kitchen. "The oven did. I think it heats unevenly."

"That may be, love," Liam called back, "but uneven heating or not, taking the cookies _out_ of the oven does actually help them taste better."

"The first batch set off the smoke alarm," Henry announced happily.

Liam laughed and shifted the big package he was holding to one arm so he could reach down and scoop the lad, sticky fingers and all, into the other.

"Doesn't seem to have stopped you eating them," he said, leading the way inside.

"Only the dough," Henry said, unashamed. "I don't like burned cookies, but I _love_ cookie dough."

Killian closed the door behind them as Liam carried the boy into the living room. Hearing his brother's laugh felt like a knife in the heart and a warm shot of whiskey in the gut at the same time. Some days, it seemed impossible that Liam could die- he was so unchanged from Killian's memories of him as a child: honorable, stubborn, jovial, nosey, self-righteous, and self-assured. He still laughed easily and commanded respect without even trying, and it wasn't until Killian looked at his brother- really _looked-_ past the memories of strength to the wasted and wasting body beneath that it even seemed possible that he was mortal.

Killian turned to see Emma leaning against the wall in the entryway to the kitchen, watching her son and his brother in the living room together with a small crease between her light brows, and he wondered if she saw it too.

Some shift of his feet brought her attention to him, however, and she gave him a slightly wary smile. Killian supposed that was only fair- he had been a terrible grouch these past few weeks. All the anger and fear and frustration that he couldn't share with anyone because Liam had forbade him had built up until he'd been able to release nothing but vitriol in the weeks leading up to Christmas.

It wasn't Emma Swan he was angry with, however. In fact, her daily visits to the diner were one of the bright spots in what felt like a very dark life lately. Her conversation, which had grown more barbed as his had grown more acidic was, nevertheless, one of his favorite parts of the day.

He answered her smile with one of his own, the expression feeling foreign and clumsy on his face, but he was pleased to see that her smile widened in response, and grew more bold.

"I'm glad you could come, Killian," she said.

"Oh, er… thank you for inviting me," he said, digging deep to remember the niceties. His mother had taught him to be a gentleman once, and he thought, maybe, he could find it in himself again. He could try, anyway.

Which reminded him- Killian shifted the gifts he was carrying in his arms to hold out a small bag that was hanging on his fingertips, swinging it toward Emma.

"That's for you," he said when she looked confused. "Not a Christmas present, there's one of those too, but a hostess gift."

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Hostess gift?" she said, as though she'd never heard of such a thing before.

"Aye. It's polite, after all," Killian said, slightly defensive.

In point of fact, he'd been so flummoxed by what to get her for Christmas that he'd finally taken Liam's advice and asked. Not Mary Margaret, who would, he was sure, tell Emma immediately (the woman had never been able to keep a secret, even in high school), but Belle French, the assistant librarian at Storybrooke Public. She'd had a few ideas, and had insisted that he must bring a hostess gift.

" _A bottle of wine is traditional," she'd said. "It doesn't have to be expensive, just good enough to drink."_

Unfortunately, Killian didn't know a thing about wine. He did know-

"Rum?" Emma looked up from the bag, a grin growing crooked on her lips as she held up the bottle.

"It's good in eggnog, or apple cider, or even hot chocolate," Killian defended, feeling his ears flame.

"I know it is," Emma said. "Who told you about the brand though?"

"Brand?" Killian asked, confused.

"You didn't ask at the liquor store what brand of rum I drink?"

He could feel his face growing hot- he hadn't even thought of that. "Ah… no. I just got you my favorite. It's… er… it's not terribly expensive, but-"

"But it's good stuff, I know," she said, continuing to smile. "I figured you must know it's what I drink because no one else I know has ever heard of Dreamshade."

"Oh! No. Just… just good luck I suppose. I'm glad to know you have such fine taste in spirits."

Emma gave a little laugh, then raised an eyebrow at him. "You can put those packages in the living room if you want… unless there's something else?"

Killian looked down at himself and realized how foolish he was being, standing in her entryway, arms full of wrapped packages, rather than delivering them to the tree he could see the edge of in the next room like a normal person.

"Right," he said, taking a step toward the living room. "I'll just… do that. Then… if you need any help… in the kitchen? I can help."

She grinned. "You're just hoping I'll give you some of the rum," she accused without heat.

Killian grinned back, and this time it felt more normal. "You've seen through my dastardly plan. What shall I do now?"

"If you can help me make one successful batch of cookies, I'd let you take a bath in the stuff."

"That seems a little excessive as a thank-you, but I'll see what I can do." He brushed past her and noticed that she smelled more strongly of cookies than the rest of the house, but also of peppermint and apples. As he entered the living room, he told himself off in his head for sniffing women like some kind of puppy.

Liam was sprawled on the wood floor across a game board from Henry. As Killian arranged his packages under the tree, he listened to the pair of them playing. He couldn't quite figure out the game, but it seemed to involve a lot of Henry calling Liam a cheater because Liam was trying to convince the lad that the number 6 on the die they were using was actually a nine. Killian was obviously superfluous in the room, however, so he returned to the kitchen in just a few minutes.

Emma greeted him with a mug of spiked apple cider she'd clearly just pulled from the microwave.

"How are they doing?" she asked as he took the handle of the mug in his right hand, wrapping the crooked fingers of his left hand around it and feeling the heat sink into his stiff digits. "Henry's not running Liam ragged, is he?"

"Liam's having the time of his life," Killian assured her. "He's been looking forward to this all week."

"Henry too," Emma said with a smile. "But not you?"

Killian was surprised enough by the directness of the question that he answered honestly without thinking about it.

"I'm not good with kids like Liam is. I haven't had a lot of experience with them, you know? And… I don't know what it is, but they always seem to have sticky hands, even when they haven't eaten anything sticky. Why is that? Do you know?"

Emma's expression grew more amused as he talked and he suddenly felt a fool.

"Of course, I'm sure Henry is different," he said, trying to backtrack. "And you must like kids, so I'm sure-"

"Oh no, Henry's a pretty grimy child. If any of the batches of cookies had worked, I'd have put him in the bath before you two got here, but there wasn't any time. And I don't like kids, particularly."

"But Henry-"

"Oh I like Henry most of the time, unless he's being a stubborn little hellion, which is about half the time, but just because I like _my_ kid doesn't mean I like _all_ kids. I don't _dislike_ kids or anything, but most of my experiences with kids have been pretty negative. Henry's got a couple of friends who are okay."

"Negative experiences?"

Emma looked surprised. "Has Liam never told you my story? Foster families, and group homes, and teen pregnancy, oh my?"

Killian shrugged. "I'm not terribly into gossip. I've heard bits. The teen pregnancy thing is hard to miss if you've any head for numbers at all, but the others? I hadn't really put it all together. I'm sorry."

She shrugged and looked away, taking the spoon from a bowl of cookie dough and making carefully rounded scoops on the cookie sheet she had sitting out.

"It doesn't really matter now. It was a long time ago, but the oldest kid in a group home is usually put in charge of keeping order with the younger kids, kind of by default, and especially if she's a girl. It was usually me, and the kids in a group home aren't really paragons of good behavior and social adjustment, you know?"

Killian didn't know, and wasn't sure what to say. Instead he took the second spoon from the bowl, presumably Henry's, and began helping Emma.

"I just wanted to be sure Henry wasn't pushing Liam too hard. I worry about him sometimes," Emma said after a few moments of quiet.

"Why worry?" Killian asked, wondering what, exactly, she knew or suspected.

Emma shrugged, not looking up from her cookies. "I just think he's making himself sick- working himself to death." She shook her head and finally gave him a small smile. "I just worry, it's a thing that moms do sometimes."

Killian set a hand on her shoulder. She was wearing a green sweater made of some kind of fuzzy yarn that tickled against the new skin of his relatively-fresh scars.

"Liam's a strong, stubborn bastard. He'll be all right," he said, cursing the fact that he couldn't be perfectly honest with her. Cursing Liam for forcing dishonesty on him.

"You know," Emma said, casually, continuing to scoop cookies, "I don't know if anyone's told you but I have this… it's sort of a superpower. I can tell when someone's lying to me. My… my mother says it's just because I spent so many of my formative years being lied to that I have an intrinsic ear for the truth, and that may be, but I like the thought of a superpower better." She lifted her eyes to his, her face serious. "You're lying to me, but it's Christmas, so I won't push."

"Thank you," he said, fervently.

Emma just nodded and looked down at the completed tray of cookies. "Alright then, Jones, how long do these go in the oven for?"

Killian was slightly surprised to find that, unlike most of the denizens of Storybrooke, when Emma Swan said that she wouldn't push, she did not push.

He checked the oven and saw that it was baking too hot and teased Emma about it.

She laughed. "You're not a real citizen of Storybrooke until you've made fun of my cooking," she said with a big, fake sigh. "Poor Henry survives on Pop-Tarts, sandwiches, and Mary Margaret and Liam's sufferance."

Killian reset the oven, put the cookies in, and instructed Emma to dig out an egg timer so that he could check on them every two minutes until they were done, just to be certain that this batch didn't burn.

"Did you make the dough?" he asked, once this was all done.

Emma blushed and glanced guiltily around. "No," she whispered. "If I tried, I'd probably poison us all. It's Mary Margaret's, she just brought it over before Henry got up this morning."

Killian laughed, and was surprised to hear the sound coming from him. It was amazingly cozy in Emma Swan's kitchen- hot drink in hand, lovely woman at his side, the sounds of play from the next room. Milah had always rigidly avoided the domestic, and so for years Killian had assumed that he, too, preferred the nomad's life. But here, in this place, he could begin to see the point.

Six minutes later, on his third check, Killian removed from the oven a tray of perfectly golden-brown little discs to present to Emma, feeling absurdly pleased and proud when she cheered.

Emma's shouts brought Henry and Liam into the room, and everyone made a great deal of fuss about the cookies, to Killian's eternal embarrassment.

Armed with warm cookies and beverages, all four celebrants returned to the living room and the pile of brightly-wrapped packages under the tree. Killian and Emma took seats on opposite ends of the couch, but Henry and Liam, both apparently too excited for such niceties, were both on the floor, crawling around the base of the tree like puppies.

A round of gifts was distributed to everyone and Killian was surprised to discover that his had Henry's name on it. He knew that Liam had brought a gift for him, but had not expected anything from the Swans. He opened it to find a Christmas craft of the sort that grade school teachers depend upon in the last week before the holiday break to keep their classrooms from descending into chaos. His was an elf dressed in green and red with a picture frame in its torso that had a snap of Emma and Henry grinning out of it.

Killian looked up to find Emma holding a pair of red leather gloves that he knew had come from Liam and watching him carefully.

"It's beautiful," he said to her. "I'll treasure it forever. Thank you, Henry." He turned to find the lad far more interested in the dinosaur toy he had just unwrapped and not paying any attention.

Henry naturally had at least three presents to any adult's one. Killian found that he enjoyed watching the lad get excited about what lay under the wrapping paper, though it was disappointing clothing as often as it was toys. His grandmother (who, Killian learned, was on a Christmas cruise with three other women that Emma sarcastically referred to as "the witches") had bought him a kid's version of one of the popular tablet computers, to Emma's barely-concealed annoyance. Liam had bought him the next three in a series of books that Henry was, apparently, reading. To Killian's surprise, it seemed that Liam too was reading the books as he was able to keep up with Henry's discourse on the series plot (which sounded to Killian like mish-mash: real-life fairy tale characters that hopped time and genre willy-nilly and appeared to fall in and out of love with each other at the drop of a hat).

Killian had a new Leatherman from Liam ("to stop you nicking mine," he'd said), and from Emma, he and Liam got a pair of matching aprons with the diner's name and Navy officer's insignia embroidered on them. Liam had crowed to see that he had the Captain's apron, and Killian the Lieutenant.

Emma had looked surprised to find that Killian's gift to her came in an envelope rather than a box. When she'd opened it to find two cinema vouchers and a restaurant voucher for the mall in Misthaven, she'd looked confused.

"I thought it might be fun for you," Killian explained quietly to her. Liam was listening, but Henry was too interested in his next package to pay attention to the adults. "You could make a day of it, you know? The mall, a movie, and dinner. I figured… if you wanted to take Henry, there's a Rainforest Cafe there, he might think that was fun, and the next Pixar film that comes out, or if you wanted to go with a friend- Mary Margaret or someone- there's that nice Italian place. I'd be willing to watch Henry- or Liam and I could together if he's available- if you wanted."

"Thank you, Killian," she said, her eyes wide and her voice earnest. "It's… it's really perfect. Honestly."

"Woah!" Henry cried, gathering the adult attention in the room back to himself.

Killian saw that he'd just torn the paper of the gift that he'd give the boy: a Lego kit of the ship from the Pirates of the Caribbean movie. He'd intended to find a kit that was less expensive and complicated, but he'd liked the look of the finished product here too well to choose something different.

Suddenly the light went out of Henry's face. Killian was confused at the change in demeanor and turned his questioning look to Emma who was frowning slightly at the box in her son's hands.

"What's the matter?" he asked, entirely lost.

"I can't have it yet," Henry said sadly, tapping the corner of the box that had a large "8+" inscribed. "You have to be eight to play with it, and I'm not yet."

Killian had not known that, and felt a sudden surge of guilt and shame through his stomach and flushing his face. He glanced at Emma and Liam both, but neither face held an answer to his problems.

"Well what if I helped you put it together?" he asked, an idea popping into his head suddenly.

Henry looked up at him frowning. "What?"

"Yeah, I think it'd work. You and I average out to be a bit more than eight years old, right? So we could put it together together- maybe tomorrow- then you and your mum could put it up somewhere in your room, if you want. Then you'll have it constructed, and you can take it down again after you turn eight, but you don't have to just have a toy in a box for the next two years. Do you suppose that'd do? I didn't know toys had age limits. I should have thought about that."

Henry didn't say anything, but turned his wide eyes to his mother instead. Killian turned to look at her to find her gnawing uncertainly on her lower lip, her eyes flicking between him and her son.

"I wouldn't want to put you out-" she began.

"You wouldn't be putting me out, Love, I offered to do it. I used to love Legos as a lad, but it's hard for me to do it anymore-" he held up his twisted left hand in explanation, then turned to Henry. "If I had someone who could be my good left hand, I think we could tackle the Black Pearl and have her seaworthy in no time, what do you think me hearty?"

Henry giggled at this pirate speak, and from the corner of his eye, Killian could see Liam grinning. He turned to Emma again. She was the deciding vote and would be the toughest to win. He had, so far, hardly endeared himself to her, but he found, suddenly, that he wanted the chance.

"You'll be right here," he said to her, hoping he could convince her. "You can be sure I don't steal him away to Neverland or teach him salty language or the like. I just want a chance to make up for getting him the wrong gift… please?"

She held off for one moment more, then sighed and nodded to Henry's squeals of delight.

Killian was surprised to find that he too wanted to dance crazily around the Christmas tree in pleasure, but he restricted himself to a heartfelt "thank you."

Once the presents were all unwrapped, there was a peculiar stupor of endorphins about the house. Liam, complaining about his back, had finally joined the other adults on the sofa, forcing Killian to sit almost close enough to touch Emma who was watching her son play with his new toys (he'd brought some older ones out from his bedroom and had constructed some great, elaborate scene with them under the Christmas tree) with a small smile on her face.

"Emma?" Liam said into the sleepy contentment.

"Mmm?"

"I… erm… I wanted to do something, if you don't mind. It's… it's something our mum used to do, and I thought… well it's a book she used to read. On Christmas Eve. I'd thought maybe…"

Emma sat up, paying better attention now, her shoulder bumping against Killian's as she shifted.

"You want to read Henry a story?" she asked.

"Henry, you… it's a general Christmas Eve sort of a story. If that's okay, I mean."

"Sure," she said with a shrug. "Hey Kid, Liam has a book he wants to read to you."

"Cool!" Henry cried, jumping up and scrambling onto the couch between Killian and Liam, shoving Killian practically into his mother's lap. "What's it called?"

Liam grinned and dug in the bag he'd brought for a large picture book. "It's called The Littlest Angel, and it's a book my mum read to me when I was your age, and to Killian after that, and I thought you might like it."

Liam's voice was low and soothing, and Henry was soon sagging near sleep against his side. The story- of a young angel, first bored by heaven, and then intimidated by a request for a gift to the Christ child- was slightly saccharine, and Killian felt himself rolling his eyes a few times as his brother read.

Then, suddenly, the book nearly finished, Killian felt as though a knife had been thrust between his ribs.

" _And what was his gift to the Blessed Infant? Well, there was a butterfly with golden wings, captured on bright summer day on the hills above Jerusalem, and a sky-blue egg from a bird's nest in the olive tree that stood to shade his mother's kitchen door. Yes, and two white stones, found on a muddy river bank, where he and his friends had played like small brown beavers, and, at the bottom of the box, a limp, tooth-marked leather strap, once worn as a collar by his mongrel dog, who had died as he had lived, in absolute love and infinite devotion."_

Killian remembered a young lad asked to leave his home and travel across the world, who had packed just such a box of memories to take with him. He felt Emma stiffen at the passage as well, and could imagine a small, golden-haired girl being passed from hand-to-hand all her life, nothing to call her own but just such a collection as well.

Then, two pages later, another passage:

" _Of all the gifts of all the angels, I find that this small box pleases me most. Its contents are of the Earth and of men, and My Son is born to be King of both. These are the things My Son, too, will know and love and cherish and then, regretful, will leave behind Him when His task is done."_

Liam's voice shook over the words, and Killian felt the knife twist in his chest. He met his brother's blue eyes over the top of the book for the briefest moment, and saw tears sparkling there.

He knew, then, that Liam had chosen to spend this Christmas this way as a sort of goodbye. He'd denied his friends the chance to say it, but he was, in a hundred-thousand tiny ways, reminding the people around him- the family he had created in Storybrooke- of his love.

The realization carried Killian, trance-like, through the end of the story, through bundling the half-asleep Henry up in his coat, through piling too many bodies into the small cab of Liam's truck, and even the fact that Emma Swan was practically riding through Storybrooke in his lap, a sweet sensation that he later wished he'd paid more attention to.

Once at the church, something in Killian that he could have sworn had died decades back rose up again, and he found himself making the sign of the cross, to his own surprise.

He'd expected a pinch-faced old bastard like Father MacGibbon, the parish priest where he and Liam had grown up: bitter and preaching hellfire and damnation, even on Christmas Eve.

Instead, Father Webber had spoken gently of love, generosity, and peace. The sense of goodwill had washed over Killian like hot water in a bath, and the old hymns seemed to speak in his mother's voice, like the hand of a ghost on his shoulder.

There was something more sacred about candlelight than any other form of illumination, Killian thought as the lights were lowered. To one side of him, child asleep on her shoulder and illuminated warm and soft, Emma could have been the Holy Mother. On the other side, the flames flickered across the planes and hollows of Liam's face, sparking gold in his hair and turning his eyes to fathomless pits.

" _Oh Lucifer, son of the morning, thou art cut down_ ," Killian thought as the light passed by.

And what, he wondered, was he in candlelight?

The priest called on them all to pray silently for a moment as the candles flickered and the Son watched from the crucifix above them all.

"Oh God," Killian thought, wondering even as he did whether God would bother with a sinner like he. Still he thought, "oh God. I do not know what to do without him. I am afraid. I do not want to be left alone."

There was no answer in Killian's head, no voice in the dark, but something shifted to the side of him, and Killian opened his eyes to look. There was Henry, head on his mother's shoulder, cherubic in the candlelight. His dark eyes opened slowly and across his face bloomed a sleepy smile of surpassing sweetness before he blinked twice, and was again asleep.

"Our Father-" the priest began at the front, and through the church rolled the words of the prayer. "For thine is the kingdom and the power forever and ever, amen."

Finally, the priest sent them away with the old benediction, "peace be with you," and for once, Killian felt that it was.

Once back out in the cold, Liam took the sleeping child from Emma, leaving her standing at the front of the church, breathing deep the bitter air. Killian stepped up beside her and stood, looking into the pitch dark of the sky above them, even the Christmas stars blotted out by the clouds.

Emma took another deep breath through her nose, and released it from her mouth in a puff of white steam, then she reached over and grabbed his hand in her own gloved one.

"It's going to be a white Christmas," she declared, quietly.

~?~?~?~?~

Emma was in the kitchen washing dishes, as Liam and Killian sat together on the couch by the greenish-glow of the multi-coloured fairy lights on her Christmas tree. Henry's Hot Wheels City was set up as though Santa Claus had left it ready for him to play with immediately he woke. The brothers had put it together, Liam acting as Killian's left hand on the fine work, and Killian finishing when Liam's hands had begun to shake and his vision waver.

"They're lucky to have you," Killian said softly into the near-dark.

"Funny," Liam answered, equally softly so as not to be heard in the kitchen, "I always considered myself the lucky one."

"I don't… I don't know how to do this," Killian said, just above a whisper, as though confessing. "I don't know how to be for them what you are."

"It's not hard. Just… love them. Be there for them. That's all it takes. They're easy to love… well Henry is. Emma's… a bit more complicated. But once you get under that armour of hers she's… unforgettable."

Killian shifted beside him. "What if I can't do it?" he asked. "What if I fail them?"

"I'll let you in on a secret, Little Brother: she doesn't need you. She doesn't need me. Emma Swan doesn't need anyone but Henry, and she's only learned that she _wants_ other people recently. She's not the diner, I'm not bequeathing her to you- you'll have to earn her trust yourself. I just wanted to show you what could be the reward if you try."

It occurred to them both at the same moment that the sounds of water and clinking plates issuing from the kitchen had stopped, and they both turned toward the entry, afraid that Emma had overheard them. She was nowhere to be seen, however, so the brothers stood to investigate.

Out of the dim fairy lights and in the warm glow of the kitchen, they found it empty, but the back door stood open. Outside on the porch, dressed entirely inadequately, was Emma looking out into the ink-black night where snow was falling in great, fat flakes.

"What do you know?" Liam murmured. "She was right."

Killian did not appear to be listening. He took his leather coat, which was hanging on the back of one of the kitchen chairs in passing and continued out into the night where he draped it over Emma's shoulders.

Liam watched her turn and smile, her face an angelic profile, backgrounded by snow and haloed by the warm gold of her hair, and he watched Killian's return smile, the dimple that his mother had always called an angel's kiss popping out in his cheek, and he sighed.

It was all he could give either of them: a chance to see in each other what he saw in them. They would take it, or not, but Liam knew deep in his bones, that they would both be okay in the end.


	4. Go Out With Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **A scene referenced in chapter 7 of "If You're Out On The Road." Set shortly after Henry's birth.**

Emma felt guiltily relieved as she entered the Hidden Jewel unencumbered, for the first time in what seemed an age, by diaper bag, baby carrier, and baby. However, for all she didn't have Henry's hot, heavy weight in her arms, the knowledge of him was a constant pressure on her heart, and his lack made her feel oddly lonely.

 _It's been three months_ , she argued to herself. _Surely I'm allowed a cup of coffee and an hour without him_.

 _It's only been three months_ , she answered herself. _How can I possibly stand to be away from him?_

"Emma?"

She glanced up at the voice, realizing she'd been standing lost in thought at the entrance of the diner for longer than was reasonable.

Behind the counter, Liam Jones was smiling expectantly at her and, once he caught her eye, gestured her over. Emma smiled back and obeyed.

Since Emma had arrived in Storybrooke, Liam had been a constant source of comfort. He was dependable, cheerful, charming, and brotherly.

"It's my lucky day," Liam said as she took one of the stools at the counter. "I had heard congratulations were in order and I'd intended to make my way out to Granny's to offer them, but instead I find you've deigned to grace my humble place of business with your charm and beauty."

Emma couldn't help but laugh. She had rarely, in her life, felt less beautiful and charming than she did in then- spit-up and milk down her front constantly, harried, pale, and exhausted- but his over-the-top flattery and flirtation was always calculated to make her smile.

"Congratulations?" she asked.

"Ruby Lucas was by earlier and said you'd taken your degree _and_ had a promotion. Was she wrong?"

"It's not a degree, it's a GED."

"Does the 'G' not stand for graduate?" Liam asked.

"General Educational Development," Emma answered with a wry smile. "Not very impressive."

Liam waved that away. "You've worked hard on it, and I'm impressed, so that makes it impressive."

Emma shrugged. She knew he meant well, but she felt just a bit condescended to. He didn't intend it, of course, he was proud of her, and she knew that, but the way he said it always made him sound like a proud father rather than a friend.

"Where's your bonnie lad, darling?" Liam asked, glancing around as though noticing for the first time that her squalling appendage was absent.

"Alice Madigan," Emma gestured out the window to the antique shop across the way, "said she wanted some practice."

"Ah yes." Liam smiled. "When is she due, again?"

"Three months," Emma said, sighing. "She's in for a ride."

Liam snorted. "I suppose you'd know. Have they learned whether they're having a boy or a girl yet?"

Emma shook her head. "They don't want to know. Alice is sure it's a boy, and Jeff thinks it's a girl."

"I suppose it doesn't matter much. Jefferson'll be a soppy fool either way," Liam said, indulgently.

Emma smiled. "He's going to be so wrapped around that baby's finger," she agreed.

"It's a good thing for a lad to have a father who loves him. Killian and I didn't much, but I did my best for him where I could."

Emma sighed. Sometimes seeing Alice and Jeff so deeply in love with each other and their baby made Emma believe in true love. Other times it made jealousy burn in her stomach like dragon's fire.

As though he knew, Liam raised an eyebrow at her. "I'm surprised you're not over there offering your sage advice to Alice."

Emma shrugged. "I, uh… the two of them were doing fine without me, so I thought I'd take a few minutes to clear my head a bit."

"And you're doing alright without Henry?"

Just thinking about him made her breasts tingle, though she'd fed him just before leaving Alice and Jeff alone with him.

She shrugged again, and smiled uncomfortably. "Whether I'm alright or not, I probably need to do it… for my own sanity. I spent a lot of time alone, you know. It takes some getting used to to spend all your time with someone. Even when that someone is a baby."

"Aye, I suppose that makes sense. Have you considered taking a night off?"

"From Henry?" Emma asked, surprised. "Well, while I was taking classes he didn't come with me, and I guess I don't spend all my time with him- he's mostly in the office with Granny while I work-"

"No, not like that. A night off- no school, no work, no Henry. Just… dinner. Maybe dancing. With me."

It took a moment for the meaning of his words to resolve themselves in Emma's mind, and once they did she went perfectly still, like a rabbit who sees the shadow of a hawk cross its path.

"What?" she said, her voice soft and uninflected.

"I'd like to take you to dinner. Celebrate your new job and your GED," Liam said, reaching for her hand, which was sitting on the counter.

Emma pulled it into her lap with a jerk.

"Why?" she asked, voice still blank.

"I just said-"

"No." She felt cold inside, and just a little bit furious. She raised her eyes to his. "This isn't about me at all, is it? It's about Henry. 'A good thing for a lad to have a father,' right?"

"Emma," Liam said, leaning closer to her. "You and Henry, you deserve to have someone taking care of you-"

"No," she said again. "I _deserve_ to do exactly as I want with the cards I was dealt. Henry _deserves_ to be more than someone's duty."

"You know I love Henry-"

"Yeah, but you don't love me. I'm just the damsel in distress in this equation."

"No, Emma. I do care for you-"

"No, Liam, you want to _save_ me, and you can't. I won't let you." She slid off the diner stool and stepped back from the counter, small and shabby, but straight-backed and proud. "I'd say I'm flattered but, honestly? It'd be a lie. I can't go out with you, Liam, because no one saves me but me. I'll see you around."

Then she turned and left the diner and its owner behind.


	5. He who gives a child a treat makes joy-bells ring in Heaven's street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm doing a fic promo on Tumblr and wrote this little bit of nothing based on a request for Captain Cobra, the first time that Killian ever had to watch Henry. It wasn't necessarily REQUIRED to be in the WYL 'verse, but that's where I set it.
> 
> This is just after Killian has returned to Storybrooke, he and Emma are not yet friends, Henry is about 5.

Killian looked up from taking orders at the sound of the bell over the door.  When the place was his, he thought, he’d rip the bell out.

Except that he wasn’t keeping it, and maybe the new owner would like it.  He’d leave it then, and whoever took it after him would get to decide for themselves.

The door opened to… Killian tried to remember the name.  The blonde who looked like a model and was friends with Liam… Emma!  And her son… Harry?

“Come on, Henry,” she said, taking the lad’s hand and crossing to the counter.

Killian finished taking the table’s orders and crossed behind the counter himself, raising a questioning eyebrow as he handed his orders back to Bart on the grill.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“Uhm… no, I don’t think so.  Is Liam around?”

Now that he could see her, Emma looked more harried than usual, though she was dressed formally.

“Er, no.  He’s out on a supply run.  Are you sure I can’t-”

“Damn,” she swore, then glanced down at her son.  “I mean… no, actually I mean damn, but don’t you say that, okay?”

“Okay!” he said cheerfully.  “Can we get pancakes?”

“No time, sorry Kid.”  She looked back up at Killian and gave him a tense smile.  “Sorry to bother you, we’ll get out of your hair.”

“Emma, wait,” he said, stopping her in her tracks.  “What’s going on?”

Emma sighed and turned back to him.  “I’ve got a client meeting,” she explained, “which I set up completely forgetting that Jeff is out of town this week and can’t watch Henry.  Liam has been known to let him sit at a table and color for a few minutes if I needed, but-” she shook her head.  “Maybe the library?  I’m technically not supposed to leave him alone there, but…”

“He can stay here,” Killian said, shocking her and himself no end.

“You don’t-” she started.  “That’s not- It’s fine-”

“Honestly, Swan, there’s like five people here.  I can handle it.  And your lad’s not the sort to go screaming around the restaurant, I think.”

Emma shot a stern look down at Henry.  “If I leave you here, you’ll be on your best behavior for Killian?”

“Yes, Mom,” he said sweetly.  “Can I get pancakes?”

Emma sighed.  “After I meet with this bride, we're going to your grandmother's for supper.  You may not have pancakes.”

Henry got a stubborn look on his face, and looked like he was going to say something, but his mother put up a finger.  “Best behavior?”

The child sighed.  “Yes mom.”

She looked up at Killian and gave him a smile.  “Thank you for this.  He has his notebook and colored pencils, and I really should only be twenty minutes.  I can’t thank you enough.”

Killian waved this away, her effusiveness making him uncomfortable.  “It’s nothing, Love.  Get going or you’re going to be late.”

She nodded, bent to kiss Henry on the top of the head, and left quickly, the bell ringing behind her.

Killian and Henry stared at each other for a long moment, neither one quite sure what to make of the other.

“Do you…” Killian began, wondering what the hell he’d gotten himself into.  “Do you want to sit at a table?  Or the counter?”

“Oh, _can_ I sit at the counter?” Henry asked, face lighting up.

“I don’t see why not, do you need a hand up?”

Henry considered the stool for a moment then nodded.  “Yes, please.”

Killian boosted him up, then handed him the bag he’d been carrying which presumably held his drawing supplies.

“I’ve got to go bring that table their food,” he said, once the lad was settled, “then I’ll be right back, aye?”

Henry didn’t seem to be listening as he pulled out a notepad and set of pencils with frowning concentration.

As Killian served meals and topped up waters, the lad’s presence was like a pressure in the middle of his back.  He was aware of him, listening to his every movement, no matter where in the room he was.

Back at the counter, the lad was working away at something on his paper with a brown pencil.

“What is that you’re drawing, Lad?”

“A dog,” the boy said, matter-of-factly.  “My friend Davey at school just got a dog.  He’s brown and has big ears.  I want a dog, but Mom says no because she’s not home enough to take care of it and they make her sneeze.”

“I had a dog once,” Killian said, surprising himself yet again- he hadn’t thought of Macintyre in a decade.  “He was a terrible creature- wee’d all over my mum’s floor every single day.  It was my job to train him not to, but I never could.  The wee monster did it until the day we had to give him up.  As far as I know, he still is!”

“Why’d you have to give him up?” Henry asked, brown eyes wide and open.

Killian hadn’t spoken of this in longer than he could remember.  Even with Liam, they rarely spoke of their mother.

“Me mam died,” Killian said, feeling his accent thickening slightly, just thinking about her.  “And Liam moved us over to the states.  It’s hard to move a dog across the ocean, and he was going to be happier in Ireland anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” the lad said, and his face said that it was the unvarnished truth- he was sorry without adult pity or self-consciousness.  “I’m sorry you lost your dog and your mom.”

And my brother, Killian thought.  A year was all the doctor had given them- so far advanced that medicine could do nothing, they just had to wait and love each day like it was his last, because it could be.

“It was a long time ago, my lad.  And what would I do with a dog who won’t stop wee-ing in the house anyway?”

“I could train him!” Henry said, with all the confidence of a child.

Killian laughed.  “But only if you never brought him home where he’d make your mum sneeze, aye?”

“Oh, right,” Henry said, face falling again.

“Best your dogs remain on paper, and maybe your pal Davey will let you visit his sometimes, aye?  I’ll be back in a mo’, Lad.”

Across the room, taking new orders, Killian couldn’t seem to stop himself smiling.  Henry was a good lad, thoughtful, kind, and clever.  He hadn’t known children could be like that.  Milah hadn’t wanted any- she didn’t like kids- but for the first time, he began to see the point to it.

 


End file.
